


Fly

by redscudery



Series: Indescribable [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alley Sex, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Coming In Pants, Drugged Sex, Drugged Sherlock, Dubious Consent, Dubious Ethics, F/F, Femslash, M/M, Post-His Last Vow, Threesome - F/M/M, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, sort of, unresolved everything tension seriously
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-04
Updated: 2014-04-04
Packaged: 2018-01-18 02:42:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1411969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redscudery/pseuds/redscudery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock are learning to live together again after Mary's disappearance. It's not easy. When they're kidnapped by Irene Adler, it suddenly gets worse.</p><p>For the U2 Achtung Baby! Sherlock Songfic Challenge,  based on the song “The Fly.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Darkness Tonight

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning: there’s some definite non-con/dub-con issues in the first segment, as well as mention of Rohypnol, which may be disturbing to some people.
> 
> Thanks to HiddenLacuna for the beta, AbundantlyQueer for her insights into John’s character, and the Antidiogenes Club for all their support.
> 
> It's not really necessary to read the first three stories in the series ("Porn Preference: Normal", "Porn Preference: Sherlock", and "John and Mary Die"), although the latter does explain what happens between John and Mary.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock have moved back in together after Mary's disappearance. They don't know what to do with each other. 
> 
> Until they have to, that is, and even then they're not sure.

**It's no secret that the stars are falling from the sky**

**It's no secret that our world is in darkness tonight.**

 

John Watson had always wished he could fly. When he was small and his parents were fighting, he would have disappeared, flown to the moon, like the song his grandmother played over and over in the tiny, odd-smelling cubicle at her rest home. When he played, he was Bellerophon, slaying the chimaera from Pegasus’ back.

In medical school and residency and basic training, he’d always gone outside when he could, or when he had to, looking up and out beyond life and death to something greater than himself.

There were nights in Afghanistan during which it had been hard to do that. The sky had been more present, denser, than anything he’d ever seen in England, but the stars had also been in the wrong places, and, as much as he’d wanted to leave the ground, he never could, literally and metaphorically.

Given his love of flying, John had always found it particularly ironic that his nightmares so often featured falling. He’d woken up inches from the ground more times than he could count, sweating and short of breath.

When he came back to London, full of nightmares, he’d looked upwards more desperately than ever, but until he met Sherlock, he hadn’t seen anything to lift him up.

Sherlock, though. Sherlock Holmes is like flying.

Or was. When Sherlock dove from the roof of St. Bart’s, John Watson was permanently grounded. For a year, he couldn’t lift his face to the sky. It was only once Mary came along, buoyant and lovely and strong that he was able to do it again.

When she left, his life fell apart. He’s back in Baker Street, the closest place he has to home, but the sky is still closed off to him.

He’s forgotten what it’s like to live with Sherlock: the mess, the noise, the constant whirlwind. Cases, work, experiments- those drive the days. They don’t quite fall back into their former domestic pattern, but almost; they skirt the edges of that comfortable space. The only constancy is uncertainty.

Too, they’re pushing boundaries, looking for reasons to get angry with each other. They usually find them.

“You left the house without a gun, Sherlock!” John yells one day after a dangerous chase.

“I knew you would have yours!” Sherlock is moving in that loose, unconcerned way that he knows drives John utterly ballistic, and John crowds him, close enough to smell his breath, a little sour from coffee and dehydration. Grabbing the front of his shirt, John feels the rich cotton slide under his fingertips. He pulls, hard, relishing the resistance.

“This shirt cost more than your entire wardrobe.”

“I don’t bloody care about your shirt.”

Sherlock pushes John back,and John lets the shirt slide out of his hands. When Sherlock stomps away to the shower, John falls back against the wall. Clothes come flying out of the bathroom, hitting the wall, sliding down. The door’s wide open.

John turns away towards the living room, flexing his hands.

Anger is easy. What’s hard is when things really are normal. Or as normal as things get in Baker Street. Normal when they’re sitting at the table, eating toast. Normal when Sherlock is thinking, supine on the couch like a marble effigy. Normal when John is typing away and Sherlock is mixing foul-smelling compounds in the kitchen, goggles on and hair askew.

John doesn’t have an outlet for his rage, then. And he is so, so angry with Sherlock.

He seethes, about Reichenbach, about Janine, about Mary--liking her, protecting her and letting her disappear--about Magnussen, about leaving, about coming back. He’s angry because if Sherlock wasn’t Sherlock, they wouldn’t be here. But, unpredictably, he’s also angry at Sherlock for the sacrifices he’s made, leaving the hospital unhealed, Magnussen, Mary. The damn wedding even, because look how that turned out. He knows he’s unreasonable, but his fury is the only thing keeping him alive.

He doesn’t talk to Sherlock, not much. He has nightmares instead, because he can cry after those.

“John. John!”

He comes to consciousness and the tears are already on his cheeks. Sherlock is bent over him, voice gravelly with sleep and concern.

“Leave me alone!”

Sherlock draws back at the edge in his voice. John has never pushed or even tried to push him away so definitively, and there’s uncertainty in his face.

“I mean it, Sherlock.”

The door closes behind him.

 

**They say the sun is sometimes eclipsed by the moon**

**Y' know I don't see you when she walks in the room.**

 

It’s Saturday night. John’s settled on the couch, drinking tea and reading- _Flashman and the Dragon_ \- when Sherlock stumbles in. He’s standing, but only just; he’s listing slightly and not gracefully at all. His eyes are red and his shirt is buttoned up wrong.

“Are you ... drunk?” John doesn’t know whether to be amused or furious. He remembers Sherlock drunk on his stag night, grandiloquent and fluid, but pushes it away.

“Not on purpose” Sherlock’s articulation is overcareful, “Ex-periment.”

“Sherlock. I told you to use the fume hood at Barts’ for anything involving toluene.”

“I must..I must _not_ ask you to come to bed.”

“Just going to order me, were you?” John can’t help but laugh. Sherlock crinkles his nose.

“Did I ssh... Say that outloud? Out. Loud?”

“You did. But you didn’t ask. So it’s fine.” He grabs Sherlock’s shoulder and directs him towards the bathroom.

“Not to bed.”

“You are going to bed. Alone.”

“Alone?”

“Yes, alone.”

“Nightmares. Come to bed.” Sherlock stops still. “No. I did not say that.”

“No, you didn’t.” John starts pushing him again. “You’re stoned on toluene and you probably haven’t slept in days. Go to bed, alone.”

Sherlock goes.

John changes his mind about going to bed himself; he picks up a blanket from the couch and pours a cup of lukewarm tea. He’ll wait, just for a while, until Sherlock gets to bed safely.

Sherlock leaves the bathroom, now, John is relieved to see, in pyjamas, and stumbles to bed without another word.

John opens his book, but his eyes are only moving over the paper. He keeps losing focus, keeps hearing “Come to bed” over and over.

Then, there’s a thump from Sherlock’s bedroom, and John leaps up and runs. He’s probably just fallen out of bed, stoned as he is, but John can’t risk not knowing.

He doesn’t think of the danger of being alone in a bedroom with Sherlock Holmes, He’ll be fine, as long as Sherlock is drunk, stoned, or bleeding. He will.

As he comes around the corner, he sees Sherlock lolling on the bed, mouth slack, limbs loose. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up, and he approaches the bed carefully. The darkness in Sherlock’s room has an odd quality; John feels like he’s walking through water, and he’s putting out his hands out to steady himself when the world goes dark.

The nightmares are upon him, hurtling downwards, the trees unfriendly and dangerous. When he wakes up, heart pounding, he is somewhere completely unfamiliar, lying on something soft and staring at a textured ceiling.

He sits up, looking wildly around him. A hotel room of sorts: one wall is completely curtained at one end, and they are lying on some sort of sleek couch, pearl-grey and expensive. There are paintings on the walls and a large cupboard in one corner. Sherlock is lying beside him, breathing, thank goodness.

“Sherlock. Sherlock!”

Sherlock rolls to one side, shakes his head to clear it.

“I’m fine. You?”

“Dizzy. What was it?”

“You’re the doctor.”

“You’re the chemist.”

“Which means you don’t know, I suppose?”

“I’m not nauseous, are you?”

“Dizzy, like you, but not nauseous. And nobody attacked us, did they?”

“If they did, I don’t remember.’

“Interesting.”

“I don’t like the way you say ‘interesting’.”

“For someone with a scientific education, you have a remarkably unenquiring mind, John.”

“Can we get out of this without you insulting me more than half a dozen times, please? It’s probably rohypnol or GHB, I’m well aware.”

“Rohypnol. We’re not tied, which means that whoever’s brought us here has something beyond restraint in mind.” He sniffed the air, looked around, “No windows. This is a dungeon.”

“I hardly think this would qualify as a dungeon, Sherlock. It’s fairly luxurious.”

“Not a castle dungeon, John, as in those horrible fantasy books you read, a dungeon, as in those horrible porn sites you visit.”

“I do not, Sherlock, visit BDSM porn sites.”

“You do, though only in months beginning in ‘Ju’. For some reason, summer turns your fancy to thoughts of bondage.”

“Sherlock!”

“You’re thinking that this is neither the time nor the place for this observation, John, but you are wrong. This situation is peculiarly suited to this discussion, because unless I much mistake my guess…”

He stops talking and sits up. Steps at the door.

“Stay down,” Sherlock whispers, “Easier if they still think we’re drugged.”

John gathers his feet underneath himself but slumps down, playing soft and loose. Sherlock falls against the arm of the couch; his thigh against John’s is hard, though, and tense.

“Why are we here?” John whispers.

“Shh.” Sherlock closes his eyes again, tugging at John’s arm. John’s head comes down against Sherlock’s shoulder, and he breathes in Sherlock’s smell: toluene, laundry detergent and night air.

John has to fight to stay still when the door bangs open. Sherlock’s eyes flutter realistically, his small moan convincing, but John knows he can’t do the same. Through his lashes, he sees a large man bang the door open, sweep the room visually, and train a handgun on them.

“Secure!” he barks, and more steps come down the hallway. Janine is propelled into into the room by another gunman, one arm twisted up behind her, her shirt untucked, her hair loose. She’s stumbling, but her hands are free. Probably drugged too, John thinks.

He shifts his muscles to sit up, but Sherlock’s hand curls around his bicep, restraining him. Though Sherlock still looks limp, his body is thrumming with tension; John takes a steadying breath and lets it out slowly, waiting for his signal.

Then Irene Adler walks into the room.

John watches Sherlock sit up and snap to attention, visibly, almost theatrically, and take Irene in. He feels a pang of jealousy, followed by anger. What does he care, why does he care, if Sherlock is even marginally interested in these women? He can’t control it, can’t ask Sherlock for anything, after Mary.

“Irene.” Sherlock’s voice seems steady but John can feel the faint tremor. Put on or not? he wonders, as he sits up slowly and blinks. Sherlock’s finger bumps his leg. Careful, don’t overdo it- that’s what that means.

“Sherlock,” She nods, quirks the corner of her mouth, and turns to the second man, “Over there.”

She gestures, and the man pushes Janine towards the bed. She stumbles, lands in the small space between them, half on Sherlock’s lap. Sherlock shifts his weight, and Janine lets herself fall to the couch itself.

“What’s going on, Irene?” John’s anger wells up in him suddenly, “Got tired of swanning around America? Or have you fucking come back from the dead, _again_.” Janine jumps, beside him, at the force of his words.

“Oh, Doctor Watson,” Irene coos, but her smile is brittle, “Did you miss me? Sherlock, how lucky you are; he’s really very protective.”

Sherlock continues to watch her.

“Quiet, today, I see. Well, all the better; I have something in mind for that pretty mouth of yours.” She takes one step towards them, then another; she’s close enough now that John can smell her perfume and it coils sickeningly in his nostrils. She crouches at the side table, and John could reach out, now, and throttle her, stop whatever she’s planning. Her throat is exposed, rising up from her black suit jacket in a slim column (not unlike Sherlock’s, his lizard mind is telling him), one hand would be enough, she’s not so strong.

Sherlock kicks him and and he tears his focus back, looks at the gunmen. They probably wouldn’t shoot to kill, but he’s had enough gunshot wounds for a lifetime. He watches as Irene pulls a remote control from the drawer.

“What is going on here, Irene?” John speaks again, as Sherlock is still worryingly silent.

“It seems,” she says, “that there is a market for, shall we say, _proof_ , of the claims that Janine has made in the papers. I find myself equipped to provide it.” She presses a button on the remote control and three small panels open, revealing camera lenses.

“You will not…” John sputters, and springs to his feet. Immediately, both guns are aimed at him at point-blank range.

“John.” Sherlock finally breaks silence, voice soft.

“Sherlock, d’you see what she’s doing? Do you see? This will destroy you, again! Again, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s mouth purses for a moment, and he shakes his head almost imperceptibly. John takes this to mean that he’s replaced the film in the cameras with liquorice, or bribed the guards, and subsides. Janine shifts and he finds himself wedged uncomfortably between her and the arm of the couch, watching Irene and wishing they were anywhere else.

Irene crosses the room to the large cupboard and opens the doors. She draws a bed down from the cupboard, then steps to the headboard and pulls out a riding crop.

“Do you recognize this, Mr. Holmes? I rather think you might.” She smiles a slow smile that makes John’s stomach flop unpleasantly, especially when Sherlock nods.

“To the bed, please.” The gunmen motions; Sherlock rises, pulling Janine, who still seems under the influence of whatever drug they’ve used on her. John resists, for a moment, then has to stand up as Janine stumbles. He helps her move towards the bed with a growing sense of unease.

“Janine,” he hisses in her ear, “Janine!”

She turned to face him and he’s reassured when he sees her eyes. She is definitely in there, awake, but for some reason she is playing the same comedy as Sherlock.

“You there, Doctor, on the right-don’t think I haven’t noticed your dominant hand-then Janine, then Mr. Holmes on the left. Very nice indeed,” she adds as they settle there.

“Now, I’m aware that this is your first time…” Irene pauses, bending to reach into another drawer, “for the camera, Sherlock, so all you really have to do is act...natural.”

“Just one sodding minute, Irene,” John lets the implications of what Irene hasn’t said go by and puts on his doctor voice, “you can’t possibly expect us to perform sexual acts on someone under duress. It’s unethical, and you know it.”

Irene straightens, and now she, too, has a gun in her hand.

“Ethics has very little to do with it, Doctor. Would you prefer me to strike Janine every time you resist?” She lifts the crop.

“Jesus, no, Irene!” He raises his hands over Janine’s body.

“Odd choice, but very well.” She waves her hands, “Get on with it.”

“Sherlock!” John hisses, but Sherlock isn’t looking at him.


	2. Let You Help

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Irene's standing over John, Sherlock, and Janine with a riding crop in one hand and a gun in the other. What could possibly go wrong?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dub-con again, sort of.

 

**It's no secret that a friend is someone who lets you help.**

**It's no secret that a liar won't believe anyone else.**

 

“Now!” Irene’s voice cracks like a pistol shot through the room.

John crowds his body closer to Janine.

He looks at Sherlock. His eyes aren’t quite right, either, and he’s leaning back on his elbow as though he really needs the support. Janine is still between them; her usual earthy, rollicking presence tamped down to almost nothing.

“Is this revenge of some sort, Irene?” John tries to sound calm and commanding at the same time. He’s not sure he’s successful.

“Stop talking, John Watson, and use that sweet, flexible mouth of yours for better things. Kiss her, both of you.”

John has compunctions, of course he does, because he doesn’t like to kiss people, especially recently drugged people, under duress, life-threatening situations or not.

He leaves aside the rest of the issues, a laundry list of problems that starts with the fact that Janine’s his ex-wife’s friend (ex-friend?), that she’s taller than he is, that she makes him a little nervous with her outspoken, cheerful ruthlessness.

He doesn’t allow his mind to really register Sherlock’s presence at all.

“Do it, John.” Irene’s voice is a dry crack through the charged air of the room.

John does, first looking up into Janine’s eyes to make sure she’s okay. She nods, almost imperceptibly, and he caresses her shoulder, her side, and leans his mouth into hers, gently, apologetically. She tastes of lemon candy and her lips are impossibly soft.

“Sherlock.”

“Irene.” Sherlock, speaks, but he is barely mocking.

“Don’t you think you should do your share?”

“Not hungry?”

Sherlock cuts his eyes at her.

“It’s not like you’ve not kissed her before. Do it, Sherlock, unless you want another hole in your body.”

Sherlock sighs heavily, but when she waves the gun at him again he slides around so that he’s nearly on his knees in front of Janine, then puts his mouth forward and catches the corner of theirs, a reluctant third in their kiss.

 

John, to make him feel less left-out, turns his head a little. Suddenly, the kiss is charged, a three-way struggle for power and pleasure. The awkwardness is something John hadn’t thought of; there are chins everywhere, and it’s very wet, but the interplay of three tongues, the taste of two different people -one of them Sherlock- is starting to send sparks down his body. He should be trying to think of a way out, here, but the distractions are tremendous.

Janine doesn’t take over or just focus on Sherlock like John thought she might; she’s definitely kissing both of them. Then she turns her head to focus only on him and her tongue runs sure and quick over his lower lip. His hand rests at the curve of her waist and he slides it up her ribs a little way so his hand is brushing the bottom of her breast. He needs the other hand to steady himself, but when he reaches out he catches Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock makes a noise of surprise; when John opens his eyes, he sees that Sherlock is kissing Janine’s neck in a way that she seems to appreciate.

He’s about to kiss Janine again, but then Irene breaks in.

“Move it along, John. Undo her buttons.”

His back stiffens, and he bends to kiss Janine again.

“Is that okay?” he whispers into her mouth.

“No talking, Doctor.” Irene’s voice is very sharp. He feels a tremor run through Sherlock. Well, _that_ is interesting.

“Do it.” Janine mouths against his cheek.

John has to push Sherlock to the side slightly to get at the buttons on Janine’s light blue shirt. He pops the first two expertly and grins in spite of himself. Some things you just never forget, he thinks, and moves on to the third. Sherlock, meanwhile, still has his mouth on Janine’s neck, but one large hand has slid up under the shirt. It’s an incredibly erotic sight.

Janine appears to like it; she’s breathing harder. He trails his hand down her front, letting his finger brush the top of her breasts. She has beautiful skin, creamy and light, and John loses himself for a moment in the pleasure of discovering a new, different body.

He bends forward to kiss her neck, cupping her breast in his hand, feeling its weight under the soft fabric of her bra, then undoing the rest of the buttons.

Sherlock pulls at the blouse with one hand. Janine’s bra is edged with a frill of some light material, and he runs a finger along it experimentally. John watches him do it intently, then bends to kiss her again. She smells lovely, light and citrusy. It isn’t long before he’s ghosting his mouth down her neck and along the tops of her breasts where Sherlock’s finger has been. Meanwhile, Sherlock has taken it in his turn to kiss her, not deeply but fluttery and quick over her face and ears.

Sherlock’s hand, though, is still on her back, and John’s hand brushes his as he holds her closer.

“Let’s see you unsnap that brassiere, Doctor Watson, while you’re in the vicinity.” Irene’s voice is, despite the circumstances, unexpected. Sherlock doesn’t react so strongly this time; his breathing is a little more rapid than usual, but John puts it down to arousal, odd as that is for Sherlock. At least, he thinks so.

Turning back to the job at hand, John finds the clasp and pinches it between his fingers. He feels the hooks slide out, then caresses Janine’s back. She’s oddly passive beneath them; though he’s never really thought about what she’d be like in bed, she’s holding herself still in a way that bothers him.

“Janine.” Had Irene seen something similar? “Janine, I think you’d like to touch them, no? I know you lust after that delightful detective, but the pocket-sized doctor has his charms as well.”

"Not everything is pocket-sized." John mutters under his breath, and hears Sherlock snort.

Janine doesn’t move.

“Janine.” Irene’s tone is sharp now. Sherlock’s head is tilted over to the side and so John sees the mulish gleam appear in Janine’s eyes. Something about it seems off, somehow. He wishes he could talk to Sherlock, just for a second, but as he kisses his way close enough to whisper, Janine finally reaches out and runs her hand down his chest and rests it on his fly buttons. He’s only half-aroused, but the pressure of her hand encourages his erection.

Sherlock lifts his head and watches the progress of Janine’s hand, then gives his head a little shake and brings his hand down to her breast. John sees him push up the bra and circle her dark nipple with his large finger. It’s not a tentative touch, but it’s a curious one, and John can’t look away. His cock is fully hard under Janine’s hand now; she’s still cupping it, though almost absent-mindedly. Her other hand is on Sherlock’s belly rather than at the cross of his legs; she’s gradually pulling his shirt up with her fingers. When she reaches skin, she stops, almost jumps away, then, when Sherlock doesn’t react, she trails her finger along his waistband. John watches despite himself. He doesn’t see an erection under the fine fabric of Sherlock’s trousers. But then, he isn’t looking.

Janine’s unbuttoning his jeans now, flipping the button with a practiced ease that would be erotic if she weren’t so serious. He caresses her other breast, and brushes his lips to her ear again.

“You don’t have to do this,” He kisses down her neck and along her jawline, then back to her ear, “They won’t shoot all of us.”

Janine’s eyes slant towards Irene as she lowers her body to the bed and tilts her chin up to kiss him, drawing his zipper down at the same time. Sherlock slides his hand across her stomach, stretches out, and props himself on his elbow. His eyes meet John’s but skitter away; John’s tempted to reach out, grasp that face in his hand, and _make_ him look.

He almost does, but Janine grabs his hand and puts it on her belly, and it’s more than he’s capable of resisting. He slides his hand down, running a finger along the skin under the waistband of her skirt. He looks again at Sherlock, who has moved on to kissing Janine’s collarbones with purpose.

If Sherlock comes a little further down, he’ll be able to say something to him. John shifts his weight and kneels between Janine’s legs, rucking up her skirt. He kisses her navel, scattering several kisses across her delicious belly, then looks up to check on Sherlock’s position.

He stops, openmouthed, at the sight of Sherlock with his plush pink mouth around Janine’s dark nipple. There’s a pulse of blood to his cock that nearly makes him see stars; he barely restrains a groan. He hears Irene’s staccato laugh behind him, but he can’t take his eyes away.

Janine sighs, and the sound does something new; the fire in John’s belly is not just desire now. He surges up and sinks his teeth into Sherlock’s earlobe, without finesse.

Time stops; Sherlock’s curls tickle his nose and Sherlock’s squeak-really nothing more nor less- of surprise, and the heat of Janine’s body beneath them both anchor John in the moment. It’s a long moment of tasting the texture of Sherlock’s skin, rich under his tongue, before he remembers why he’s here.

“What now?” he mouths, ignoring the shiver of Sherlock’s body against his right side. Sherlock’s mouth moves, but no sound comes out.

John hears rather than sees the riding crop coming. He can’t move in time, and the crack across his back comes as a cruel counterpoint to the pleasure and heat in the rest of his body.

“What the hell are you playing at, Irene?”

“Not letting you open your trap, Dr. Watson.” She gestures with the gun, “Or at least not letting you speak with it. Leave Sherlock to his business and lift that skirt.”

Janine shifts at these words, her muscles suddenly tense. She struggles a bit, trying to get her elbows under her and John sits back on his heels. Sherlock, who had pulled back from Janine’s breast when the riding crop fell, is running his hands uncertainly across her ribcage.

“Irene.”

“Janine?”

“Battle dress.” Janine’s voice startles John, and he sits back a bit. Irene’s expression changes. “Are you sure?” she says, softly.

“Battle dress.” Janine repeats, locking eyes with her. John realizes what they’re doing now, because of course it’s ‘they’ and not ‘she’.

Sherlock doesn’t seem to register the change in atmosphere, not right away. He gives Janine’s neck a last, careful kiss before straightening up. His pupils are dilated, and he looks a little confused, more than John can ever remember seeing him before. Can’t be the drugs- must be the sex. He shifts slightly, and yes, he can feel Sherlock’s erection against his knee.

“Sherlock.” John reaches out to shake him, to bring him back to himself, but Janine shifts her weight just then. Off-balance, he topples forward. Sherlock rolls to one side, but not far enough to get out of his way; John lands, diagonally across his body, his face in the crook of Sherlock’s neck. He pushes himself up again the best he can, desperate to get a handle on what’s happening, but the feeling of Sherlock, erection and all, full-length against his is already imprinted on his body.

When he can see again, she's standing, looking at Irene intently.

“Finish this,” Janine says, and leaves the room.


	3. No Secret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John finds out a lot of things about Sherlock, but is still in the dark about the reason for the threesome at gunpoint. 
> 
> Of course, when they're no longer in a threesome at gunpoint, things become even more confusing...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's all clearly consensual from here on out, so please enjoy. 
> 
> Infinite thanks to tiltedsyllogism for the in-depth and interesting beta.

 

**They say a secret is something you tell one other person**

**So I'm telling you, child.**

 

It’s John that breaks the silence that follows Janine’s exit.

“Oh, this is just wonderful. Wonderful. Pulling strings everywhere, Irene, really lovely. And Janine? How did you corrupt _he_ r? Or, no, wait, is she a psychopath as well?” His tone is harsh, he knows it, but Janine, insouciant Janine, in the middle of this, somehow _knowing_ , is more than he can take. No wonder she’d been so calm.

“ Did she want this, for you to drug her and film her at gunpoint? Christ!”

“John,” Sherlock’s voice, free now of that drugged sound, holds a warning note.

“You know about this somehow, too I know you do. What the fuck is going on here, Sherlock? Irene?” He turns to the bodyguard nearest him, “You? Any thoughts?”

“I did not know she would do this, John.”

John opens his mouth, closes it again.

“‘Corrupt.’ How quaint. You really are a puritan at heart, Doctor Watson.” Irene turns to Sherlock, “That does complicate things. Still... Sherlock?”

Sherlock looks down, then looks at John. The faint pink stain on his cheeks darken; he opens his mouth and closes it again.

“John…” He falters. Irene raises her eyebrows.

“Go on now. You couldn’t tell him when you were going to your death in Eastern Europe…Oh!” she says, seeing John’s hands clench.

John looks from one to the other, sees they’re both telling the truth. Irene opens her mouth but he doesn’t hear anything come out; looking back at Sherlock, he suddenly imagines seeing him dead, again. The mental picture of Sherlock at Reichenbach-blood, curls, pale skin- freezes him. He flexes his hand.

Irene’s mouth moves again, he doesn’t register. He shakes his head, shifts. Loss, adrenaline, desire, and anger swirl together in a toxic bubble of emotion and he has to pinch his lips together to avoid spewing it out all at once in ugly mess.

“I..” Sherlock starts, faltering for a second time.

“Oh, Sherlock. He didn’t know even that?” John hears those words as if from a great distance. He feels his face freeze into a smile of sorts, a humorless rictus that makes Irene grip her gun more tightly.

Sherlock’s face is neutral, his pupils slightly dilated, but his mouth is tight.

“John.” He tries again.

John looks away, stares at the wall. He hears the silence fall, thick and unpleasant, but he glories in it.

Then, Sherlock reaches out towards him, but then draws his hand back. His tentative gesture shakes something loose in John’s chest, and for a minute, he looks, just looks.

Then he remembers the train car. And Janine. And Sherlock witholding, always witholding something from him. Some of that toxic emotional soup spills, and he spits,

“Was that what you were going to tell me, Sherlock, on the tarmac?”

     “It would have been pointless, John.”

     “Well no, no it wouldn’t have, would it, because then I would have known, this time. As it is, once again, everyone knows things but me.”

     “I regret not telling you, John.”

     “You did last time, too, _and yet you still did i_ t!”

“I know.” Sherlock looks back at the lamp; John sees his shoulders hunch under his white shirt. He can’t take it, not any of it. Not again.

Grabbing Sherlock’s chin, he turns him abruptly around, “You arsehole!”

Sherlock remains uncharacteristically quiet.

“Beyond drama you can’t go, Sherlock.” It isn’t a question, but there is certainly a note of something in Irene’s voice, “Because it’s not drama, this, but truth.”

“Thanks so much, Irene.” Sherlock’s voice is not quite as steady as John thinks he probably wants it to be, “What is your motivation for this little scenario, exactly?”

“You know what it is, Sherlock. I know you do.” Irene says.

“What I don’t know is why.”

“I don’t…” John stops short.

“T-shirt, John?” Irene’s voice is mocking.

“It can’t just be amusement, or revenge.” Sherlock’s voice is steadier and his face is skeptical.

“You saved my life,” Irene says calmly, “and I thought I’d return the favour.”

Silence reigns for a moment; John watches them both, wondering.

Sherlock is still.

“Thank you,” he says, “I suppose it’s time.”

“Past time.”

Irene turns around and looks at John, raising her eyebrows as she does so.

“Does he know?”

“He must.” Sherlock is staring at the lamp again, but John can feel his attention shift.

“I’m not psychic, you know. What is it exactly that I know?”

“There were complications, though, weren’t there, Sherlock?” Irene’s voice is colder, now.

“She wasn’t-exactly- a complication, Miss Adler.”

“Oh, Sherlock, what else could you possibly call her?”

“An alternative, maybe.”

“I assume you mean ‘goad.’ You shouldn’t have done that, Sherlock. You’ll be sorry.”

Sherlock’s mouth sets in a pout, but he doesn’t say anything here.

“Irene!” Janine’s voice comes from the bedroom door

“Coming!” Irene calls back. “Lock the door, Peters,” she says to the larger guard, “this one here is an exceptionally talented escape artist. Just...” she hesitates, “Just stay on your side of the door. Stevens, the corner. Watch yourself.” The second guard moves to stand at the left of the mirror, gun still pointed at the two of them on the bed.

“Taking all precautions, are we?” Despite the situation, Sherlock sounds almost amused.

“You two wait here. I have more pressing matters to deal with.” Irene’s voice cuts through the last of the laugh in his voice, “Be a good boy and do my job for me, Sherlock.”

“Indeed.” The expression on Sherlock’s face is almost conspiratorial, and John feels, again, the sensation of treading water.

“What does she mean, Sherlock,” he asks, watching Irene sweep from the room. Despite his anger, the movement of Irene’s body draws John’s eye, the residual arousal from the… threesome? contact? thrumming through him. When she disappears around the corner, he turns to Sherlock, who, in a sudden fit of activity, has stood and is walking toward the curtains. John watches him move for a moment, then looks away. It’s as if he both feels and sees the lean elegance of Sherlock’s body, now, and it’s a bit overwhelming.

“So why are we here, Sherlock?”

Sherlock doesn’t answer, just takes another step towards that fascinating wall.

“Are you looking for a way out? What?”

Sherlock shakes his head.

“There’s no way out, not really.” 

John lowers his voice, hisses across the room, "What about the door? Two guards, two of us?” At this Stevens raises his eyebrows and stands a little straighter.

Sherlock comes back to where John is sitting. He stops, squares his shoulders, looks at John. John stands up and licks his lips.

“No,” Sherlock says, stepping closer, “There really is no way out, you know.”

He’s in John’s space now, warm and very present. John’s arousal is becoming more insistent again. He slides his eyes away from Sherlock, though he’s not sure why that will help. He’s perfectly capable of being furious with Sherlock even when there’s no direct eye contact.

“John, I…” Sherlock steps around him so they’re face to face again. John has to move back this time because he really doesn’t want Sherlock to deduce his erection right now.

“Oooh!” A moan. John jumps, and even Sherlock looks startled for a moment.

“Now you get a text?” John can’t quite restrain the jealous note in his voice.

Sherlock cocked his head. “That’s not a text alert noise. That’s the original.”

 

**It's no secret that a conscience can sometimes be a pest.**

**It's no secret ambition bites the nails of success.**

**Every artist is a cannibal, every poet is a thief;**

**All kill their inspiration and sing about the grief.**

“The original…oh. But where?

Sherlock gestures towards what John had previously assumed was a mirror on the wall facing the door, but is, upon closer inspection, a window with a very shiny finish. He approaches it, and sees the two women standing close together in a surprisingly lavish bedroom. Janine’s mouth is on Irene’s neck, already pushing the suit jacket back from her pale skin; Irene has her arms around Janine, her head thrown back.

“We can’t watch, Sherlock. It’s not responsible, not ethical.”

“Puritanical indeed. John, it’s no less invasive than the pornography you so studiously pretend not to watch. In fact, Irene planned this scenario carefully; this is her job, after all. She knows what the acoustics are. She meant us to hear, and she means us to see.”

John turns away nonetheless, stubbornly setting his back to the door.

“Why would you want to watch, Sherlock? Didn’t get enough of Janine when she was sleeping in your bed and showering with you?” He flexes his left hand.

“I’ve already seen Janine naked, it’s true, and social convention does allow people more leeway with the privacy of those they’ve been intimately involved with.” He pauses, and when John just raises his eyebrows, he adds, “If it were Mary, you’d watch.” John sets his shoulders and stares straight ahead.

“Or Sholto.” Sherlock adds this so quietly John almost doesn’t hear him. When it registers, he almost stops breathing.

He turns to Sherlock, who, instead of looking at John as he usually does when he’s scored a point, has dropped his forehead against the window and leaned heavily against the sill.

The sighs from the bedroom are unbearably loud in the silence between them. John winces at a particularly juicy kiss, Sherlock stands immovable; he’s straightened up and is watching the women now, but his face is still set in lines of resignation.

John stands, unfolding himself carefully. He takes one step towards Sherlock. Setting one hand on the sill, he hisses “You know nothing about Sholto. Nothing!” He can’t look at Sherlock. 

“But since you want me to watch so much, I will fucking watch.”

Both Janine and Irene had turned towards the window, but once John has moved to stand next to Sherlock, they return their attention to each other. Janine, in bra and skirt, has moved on from biting Irene's neck and is now unbuttoning her suit jacket with purpose. Each time a button comes loose, more of Irene's skin comes into view: first, her shoulders, gleaming in the soft light, then her back, beautifully moulded, then her slim waist. Though he's seen her naked before, though they are in distinctly non-ideal conditions now, John can't help but be excited by the unveiling; every additional inch brings him, reluctantly, to a greater pitch of desire.

When the jacket drops to the floor, Irene stretches, arching her back and turning far enough towards the window that one small, perfect breast can be seen in profile. John cuts his eyes at Sherlock, checking, perhaps hopelessly, for a reaction, but so far none is apparent; Sherlock's eyes are on the pair, but his chest is rising and falling evenly. John doesn't quite dare look farther down.

Looking back through the window is a shock. In the brief time he's been watching Sherlock, Janine has bent her head to Irene's nipple and is teasing the tip with her tongue. Irene is looking down at her, mouth open; Janine places a finger on her lower lip; Irene takes it in, sucks it.

Sherlock inhales sharply, and the sound goes straight to John's groin.

Janine trails the damp finger down Irene's body and along her ribs. Her mouth fastens around Irene's nipple; despite himself, John is reminded of Sherlock's mouth in the same spot on Janine's body.

He keeps looking straight ahead, unseeing. Suddenly, Sherlock exhales, though, and it's as if John feels that rush of air on his body.

John clenches his his hand again, folds his lips. He's angry at Sherlock, he knows he is, and this physical reaction, sparks under his skin, has got to be a manifestation of that.

He is angry. He doesn't want to look at Janine and Irene, whether they want him to or not, but looking away is impossible. He could stare at the wall, but he knows he won't. If he looks away, he'll look at Sherlock, and frankly, right now, he's scared to.

He shakes his head and directs his attention to the women again. Janine has now dropped Irene's skirt to the floor- it's odd, he thinks suddenly; he would have thought Irene would be the aggressor had he thought about this- and is kissing along her belly. Irene is standing still, her hand in Janine's hair, watching.

Then, Janine stands and takes Irene into her arms, bending to kiss her softly, so softly, before lowering her to the bed. John recalls, despite himself, the feel of Sherlock’s skin under his mouth.

Janine kneels between Irene’s legs, and sits back on her heels, looking. Irene is watching her, rapt, but stays still, asking for nothing, until Janine bends and kisses her just below the lace of her garter belt. Then, she sighs, the same soft, carrying sound as before.

When John feels Sherlock’s body tense, he takes it for desire, at first, again, and doesn’t move. He hopes Irene never sends another text.

Then, though, he becomes aware that the guard in the corner has shifted and is craning his neck towards the window. It’s time to move, then, to channel this desire and just _do_. He slants his eyes up; Sherlock nods, then bends towards him.

“Punch me,” he whispers, making it look as though he was biting John’s ear--with unfair expertise, John thinks, almost recoiling as the heat of Sherlock’s body and brush of his lips send sparks through him.

He breathes through his nose, focusing, then twists to Sherlock, grabbing the front of his t-shirt and shoving him backwards. Sherlock topples back towards the guard, and in the time it takes for the guard to regain his focus (John admits that Janine & Irene’s little scene has been very distracting), Sherlock’s sprung up and grabbed the gun. He twists it away and hits the man’s neck with the side of his hand. John yanks the gun away cleanly and stands at the door of the bedroom with it while Sherlock pins the man to the floor, pulls zip-ties from his pocket, and immobilizes the guard’s arms behind his back.

Irene comes to the doorway; John points the gun at her, and she freezes.

“Very well, then, go ahead.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock’s tone is...odd, and John raises his eyebrows, looks at Irene again, then back to Sherlock, who’s not giving anything away.

“John, keep your eyes on her, but move out of the line of sight. Come on!”

John gets into position and Sherlock opens the exit door. The guard wheels around, but it’s already too late. Sherlock’s on him, and he slumps to the floor. They go, up stairs, out a nondescript door, and into an alley, half-lit and dingy. There’s a busy street at one end, and they start running towards it, side by side.

Sherlock pauses in mid-stride. John goes sailing past him, still at full speed, then backtracks.

“Sherlock, we’ve got to keep going. I’m pretty sure they’ll be untying that guard in a minute, and I think he’ll bash your head in if he catches you.” He reaches out and tugs on Sherlock’s sleeve.

Sherlock tugs back.

“Come on, Sherlock, you can explain how I’m missing something blindingly obvious somewhere else, for God’s sake.”

“No.” Sherlock is still just standing there, that curious blankness back in his eyes.

“She wanted us to get out.” John pants.

“She did.” Sherlock sounds unusually grim.

“Why?”

Sherlock doesn’t answer.

John is almost certain, though, that Sherlock’s stillness is not a stubborn one, but an angry one. John feels all his emotions coalesce into anger, adrenaline; he can handle this.

“What’s so bloody important that it can’t wait until you’re not in danger of grievous bodily harm? Do you always have to do things the hard way?” He leans forward, stretches his hands out as if to push Sherlock.

Instead of letting him, Sherlock grabs his wrists and steps closer.

“You desire me.” It’s not a question.

John freezes.

“You do.” Closer still. John takes a step back and he’s against a wall now, Sherlock looming over him and filling his field of vision.

“I...I..” John’s at a loss for words.

“You deny it.” Sherlock’s voice is low and furious, “You take it in, you thrive on it, but you call it anger, excitement. You don’t dare call it what it is.”

“You’re no better!” John bursts out.

Sherlock steps back at the force of his words, and now John can see his whole face, resolute and beautiful in the light of the streetlamp.

“Not until today.” Sherlock drops his wrists, puts one hand on the wall above John’s head. The other hand he places on John’s neck, thumb lying along the thin skin of his collarbone, “No more secrets.”

John’s mouth moves but he can’t speak, Sherlock is looking at him so intently.

“I desire _you_ ,” he says, and the bottom drops out of John’s world.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Love scenes, if genuine, are indescribable; for to those who have enacted them, the most elaborate description seems tame, and to those who have not, the simplest picture seems overdone”  
> \- Louisa May Alcott, _An Old-Fashioned Girl_
> 
> ... I'm just kidding. I promise to describe the love scenes, in detail, in the next chapter.

**Author's Note:**

> The “Flashman” is Flashman and the Dragon, by George McDonald Fraser.


End file.
